


of dying dreams the undead sing

by solipsismlemonade



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, DC comics - Freeform, F/M, Flashbacks, JSA - Freeform, JSA All-Stars - Freeform, Memories, PTSD mentions, a grand total of two sentences dedicated to it, and then summarily ignored, anyways it's not super angsty but it also doesn't have a happy ending, as u do, being the only one writing for king chimera, he deserved better, i have a lot of Feelings and rn i'm writing all of them, i'm really enjoying, im just filling in the gaps ok, king chimera - Freeform, king chimera's background that got, namita - Freeform, no one ever comforts king and it's sad ok, on this whole goddamn site can you tell?, semi hurt no comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24097108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solipsismlemonade/pseuds/solipsismlemonade
Summary: King Chimera never stopped blaming himself for what happened.
Relationships: King Chimera / Namita (referenced)
Kudos: 1





	of dying dreams the undead sing

King was hallucinating. He had been for a while now, of course. At first it was just glimpses; a flash of blue in the corner of his vision, a stranger’s face turned too-familiar, long black hair swaying in a nonexistent breeze. By the time he made it to New York, they were only getting more and more frequent. He would see long-dead faces in crowds, hear whispered words that only his mother had said to him.

This was impossible. King knew it was impossible. His mother was dead. He’d watched her die.

Still, the memories persisted. Every waking moment – flashes of cold and color, whisper and touch. King’s head snapped to the side and his gaze fixed on a single snowflake, drifting through the air to lay against the pavement.

New York in the summer was insufferably swampy, humid and hot with an impending storm. The sun was making King in his black suit feel like he’d been put into a particularly prejudiced kiln. The snowflake didn’t melt. It glittered up at King like a secret. He stepped over it and opened the door of his apartment building, greeted with another memory; opening another door, stepping into his home to hear his mother singing, harmonizing with herself, polyphonic voice layering and echoing off the walls of their kitchen.

King blinked.

Harsh fluorescent strip-lighting greeted him this time around, coupled with the smell of disinfectant and dry carpet. The tile floors gleamed under the white light. Walls painted a dim beige leaned in on both sides, meeting an impersonal ceiling that was a speckled white. King knew this sight. He’d memorized it, and like every one of his other memories, he would never forget it. He would never forget anything.

King’s dress shoes made crisp, quiet sounds on the tile as he walked down the row, pulling out a key from a pocket as he pressed a blinking green arrow. He’d gotten a room at the top so he could hear the wind and see the sky; after a few months in New York, he’d needed it. King couldn’t even see the stars out here, which surprised and irritated him more than he could say. The inside of the elevator walls stared back at him, unblinking. The edges of his key dug into King’s white-gloved palm. He relaxed his hand, only to flex it again. Someone was standing next to him, long black hair brushing his shoulder. The edge of a smile glittered at the corners of his vision, bright and unrestrained. She was almost a head shorter than him, dressed in something blue and flowing.

King blinked dry eyes.

The empty elevator opened and King stepped out, shoulders stiff and face set in hard lines. His hand hurt and King belatedly realized that he was still holding the key, staring down his own door. The key went into the lock and King shut the door behind him, stiffening at the sight of the woman sitting at his kitchen table.

“Hello, _mon roi_ ,” Namita said calmly, giving King a smile that made her face light up, as if King was the center of her world. Another snowflake landed on the counter next to King’s hand, perfect and white against the marbled counter.

“Hello, Namita,” King said, as if it was the only thing he could say back.

“You look tired.” Namita’s voice was the most beautiful voice King knew, even more so than his mothers. “Have you been sleeping lately?”

“I’ve been… busy.” King put his key on the spotless counter and leaned back against it, greedy eyes fixed on Namita’s face. “You know I’ve never slept well.”

“Yes. Too busy learning. Too busy practicing.” The corners of Namita’s eyes crinkled in another smile and King felt his chest twinge, low in his rib cage. It felt like he’d been holding his breath for years when he exhaled again, long and slow. “You should take better care of yourself.”

“I take enough care of myself,” King replied before shaking his head. This wasn’t the point. “Why are you here, Namita? Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“You must ask yourself that question, beloved.”

King looked away, finally, eyes closing and shoulders hunching. His mother stood behind Namita, looking out the window.

“I am just another one of your _chimerae, mon roi_. I am saying only the words you place on my tongue.” Namita held out a hand, umber skin gleaming under the warm lighting of his kitchen. King looked at it, held out a gloved hand. He hesitated, just for a bare second, and he could feel the warmth of her through his glove – and then his hand feel through empty air, the illusion breaking into a rainbow-oil slick.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” King whispered, curling his fingers into a fist.

“I know.” Namita regarded him with cool brown eyes even as she faded away, fragmenting into nothing.

King took another breath in, let it out, squared his shoulders. His mother still stood facing out the window, long black hair in a knot at the base of her neck. He rounded the kitchen table. If he ignored his shaking hands, he almost felt normal.

“Mother?” King said, softly. He reached out to touch her shoulder, hesitating for a brief moment before he let his hand fall and the memory of his mother faded, leaving King with a subpar view of the New York skyline and the setting sun, casting long, dim shadows through the streets and painting windows a fierce orange.

King remembered everything. He remembered watching Namita die and the sight of his childhood home going up in flames; he remembered seeing his mother’s back, bloody and broken. He could remember anything he saw, so why could he not remember his mother’s face?

The setting sun gave him no answers, only a lasting imprint on the backs of his eyelids and a vague ache in his temples. King stayed until the light disappeared from the streets and he could blink without seeing flashes of golden sunlight, until he couldn’t feel the ghost of Namita’s touch on his hands, his shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> title is not from a song but was, i believe, pulled off a NaNoWriMo titles forum! for the record, though, i've been listening to all your love by sir sly on loop all day today and yesterday as well as better luck next time (doja cat) so those are probably going to make an appearance sometime soon


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